24. Booker
Booker
Three days.
Three days of late night phone calls and endless text messages.
Three days of Maya lighting up every corner of my brain with her laugh.
I won’t say it’s been easy, forcing myself to change my thinking after all these years. But Maya keeps the darkness at bay, like she always has.
I’m not looking forward to tonight’s game, because even though Maya told me she would be there, Ross will be, too.
In the locker room, everyone’s in slightly higher spirits than at our last game; the holiday break gave the team a much needed physical and psychological siesta.
Despite being in a better mood, our team dynamic on the ice still needs major work without Colt. We’ve practiced with Fischer filling in for weeks now, but we can never seem to mesh quite right.
I’ve even trained with the kid one-on-one, and I think he’s so nervous about living up to Colt’s standards that he’s sabotaging himself. The guy can skate, but he chokes under pressure.
We lose the game, 3-2. Not a blow-out, but still disappointing considering it’s a team we should’ve beaten easily.
Coach does his post-game debrief like always, and before he steps out to talk to the media, he looks at me and says, “They’re probably going to want an interview since your dad’s here, Captain.”
He doesn’t push me to talk to the camera’s, usually choosing to speak to them himself. Only on special circumstances will Coach directly ask me to make a media statement, like when it relates to me personally or if he’s too busy to speak to them.
He’s not pushing me now; in fact, I think it’s the opposite. He’s silently asking if I want him to tell the camera’s to fuck off, and I have to force myself to keep a straight face.
“I’ll be out there in a minute,” I tell him, pulling off my jersey and pads. The whole point of my dad coming to this game was for the press, so if I don’t make an appearance, I’ll have hell to pay whether I like it or not.
With a fresh t-shirt and a backward hat on my damp hair, I make my way out to the arena lobby, where I find my father surrounded by camera’s and microphones.
“There he is!” Ross says, throwing an arm around my shoulders.
He smiles pityingly at me, as if he genuinely cares that we lost the game. “Tough night, huh, James?”
I nod, giving the camera a small, fake smile. “Yeah, not our best night.”
“Do you think the team will ever find their groove without Colton Crosby on the ice?” a reporter asks, holding her mic out to me.
“Sure, we’re getting there. It’s only been a few weeks, plus the holidays interrupted some of our training time. But we’re improving every day.”
“Ross, it’s so amazing that you took time away from your tour to come support your son and his team through this rough patch. What did you think about Jameson’s performance tonight?”
“What can I say? My son’s a natural leader and a legendary talent. The team is struggling and he’s out there holding them together. I’m as proud as any father would be. He played his ass off.”
“Thank you, guys, for speaking with us. Have a good night.”
The cameras quit rolling the crowd disperses. I subtly shrug out from under Ross’s arm under the guise of readjusting the strap of my duffel bag.
My father motions for me to follow him, and heads through a door that leads to a back stairwell. It’s empty since most of the fans have already left the arena.
Before I’m even fully in the door, he wraps a bruising hand under my jaw and shoves me back against the cool cinder block wall.
“You think I wanted to come all the way here to watch you fucking lose?” he asks, unable to keep his charming mask in place a second longer. His lip curls in a snarl as he hits the back of my head against the brick again. “I didn’t come all the way here to support a loser.”
His fingertips dig into my cheeks, so there’s no way for me too form a response, not that it would help my case. It’s always over quicker if I stay quiet.
His hand slips from my face and closes around my throat, using all of his strength to cut off my air supply. For a few seconds, I hold his gaze, but as my lungs start to burn, I grip his wrist, trying unsuccessfully to pull him off.
“My son will not be a loser, do you hear me? That’s my name on your fucking jersey,” he growls, but I hardly hear him as my vision starts to go black.
Just when I’m on the cusp of losing consciousness, I hear the door slam open and a sharp “Hey!” fills the air.
Ross lets go of my throat, and I slide down the wall, coughing, pulling deep breathes of air into my burning lungs.
I look up to see a sea of blonde curls standing between me and my father, and the fear that passes through my body is nearly paralyzing.
“Listen, sweetheart, this is just a misunderstanding,” Ross starts, trying to bullshit his way out of this mess, thinking he’s been caught red-handed by a random girl.
I stand up, pushing off the wall and step around her, putting a hand on my father’s chest and pushing his stiff form toward the door. “Come on, let’s just go.”
But Maya doesn’t understand, and when she reaches out to grab my arm with a frantic “Jamie, no, you can’t go with him!” the look in Ross’s eyes goes from falsely apologetic to severely sinister.
“Jamie? Son, do you know this girl?”
I open my mouth to deny it, to try to get his attention off of her, but he sees the way her fingers tighten on my sleeve, and he smiles like a cat who just caught a mouse.
“Well, it looks like you’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you, Jamie,” he says, stepping closer, and my gut twists at the way his eyes trail over her.
He reaches up to tuck a curl behind her ear, and my lingering restraint snaps. I grab his wrist, halting his hand an inch from Maya’s face, and Ross’s expression goes murderous.
In the next second, his other fist flies, hitting me in the lower ribs so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if one was cracked, and I collapse to a knee, gasping.
Maya stumbles back, hands covering her mouth and tears in her eyes, but Ross’s attention is fully directed on me now.
Good.
“Try something like that again, and see what happens. I will release the video to every media outlet in the United States. I will end your stupid fucking hockey career before it even begins. I will have you in a jail cell before you fucking graduate.”
He stands up straight, running a hand through his disheveled hair and straightening his shirt. “Bring her with you when you come home for Spring break. It’ll look good to introduce me to your girlfriend.”
With those final words, he walks away, leaving me panting on the dirty, cold concrete floor.
“Oh, my God! Jamie! I have to call the police,” Maya says, dropping to her knees beside me, frantically searching her pockets for her phone.
“No. Don’t. You can’t,” I reply, falling back against the wall to catch my breath.
“I can’t let him just walk away after that!” she nearly shouts.
“Yes, you can!” I shout back. She winces and I lower my voice. “You can’t call the police, Maya. You heard what he said.”
Her eyes brim with more unshed tears. Whatever she thought she knew about my relationship with my father is nothing compared to witnessing it firsthand.
“I’m okay,” I reassure her. I want to continue leaning here, maybe all night if I could.
My lungs ache and my head is pounding and a stabbing sharp pain shoots through my right flank when I inhale.
But Maya need’s to know I’m not on death’s door, so I push up from the ground with a grunt and use my remaining strength to pick up my bag.
“Jamie…” she glances down at my throat, where I’m sure bruises are starting to form.
“Let’s just go, okay? We’ll talk about it later.” I hate that I’m blatantly dismissing her when she’s obviously upset, but this is one topic I can’t cave on. I can’t go to the police. If I could’ve, I would have years ago. I would’ve fought back a long fucking time ago.
She nods, wiping her eyes and holding the door open for me. “Do you want me to carry your bag?” she asks.
“No,” I answer, shaking my head. “I’ve got it.”
“At least let me drive your car home. I was going to ride home with Dad, anyway.”
Knowing I’m in no shape to drive—still feeling dizzy—I relent, throwing my bag in the trunk and handing her the keys to my Camaro. “Don’t wreck my car,” I say, a poor attempt at joking as I climb in the passenger seat.